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THE APARTMENT BUILDING was a nice-looking four-story walk-up off Clove Road in the Sunnyside neighborhood of Staten Island. A white van with a blue stripe identifying its crew as New York medical examiners was parked directly in front of the building. There were two patrol cars as well.

Trilling said, “I thought there’d be more cars out front.”

“Not for a death inside an apartment. Usually, the meat wagon gets here right toward the end of any investigation. They’ve probably already written this off as a suicide.”

“You call the medical examiners’ van a ‘meat wagon’?”

“Sorry. It’s an old habit. We’re not supposed to call it that anymore, and I agree with that sentiment. It’s just that’s what homicide detectives called it for so long.”

As soon as we were out of my car, I saw the M.E. technician move to the rear of the van and pull out a gurney.

I mumbled, “Oh, shit.”

Trilling asked, “What’s wrong?”

A woman in her forties with dyed blond hair and a tight-fitting uniform shirt yanked the gurney onto the asphalt with practiced ease.

She shook her head when she noticed us. “What are you here for? This is not Manhattan North. Are there no homicides in Manhattan? Surely some cop has shot someone today in your jurisdiction.” Her Russian accent—or, more precisely, Belarusian accent—was obvious from the first syllable.

“Hello, Alina. Nice to see you too. I thought you worked the night shift.”

“I had to stay after. This my last pickup. I don’t have cushy job like detective. In Minsk, I was pediatric nurse. Here, all I do is pick up dead people.”

“Everyone from Belarus or Russia I have ever met had some important job back home. There’s nothing wrong with working for the New York medical examiner’s office. And we both know being a detective is not a cushy job.”

Alina said, “What time did you start today?”

“I got in the office a little after seven.”

“And did you have dinner with your family last night?”

I nodded. I knew where this was going, but I didn’t want to rob her of a victory.

Alina said, “That sound cushy to me.” She looked at Trilling but didn’t say anything. Then she said, “Why are you out here on a suicide? Did you know the man?”

“He was a retired NYPD detective. Just checking up on a few things. Have you seen the apartment?”

“Nice apartment. Old man had very few guests. Building’s super needing to check something. He found old man.” She looked around to make sure we were alone. “The patrol officer point out suicide note. All it say was ‘Had enough, bottoms up.’”

“That’s about the most coplike suicide note I’ve ever heard.”

Alina added, “Looks like he drink a glass of water and some crushed pills. There’s a glass by his nightstand with something in it. Maybe he drink it, then lie down on the bed. Very peaceful scene. Not like what we usually see.”

I said, “Thanks, Alina. Hope you can get some rest today.”

She cut her eyes toward me. “You call me lazy?”

“No, no.” I realized it was a losing battle. Some people can never be satisfied. I just waved to her and headed to the stairs.

As soon as we were out of earshot, Trilling looked at me and said, “What’s her story?”

“We used to date.”

Trilling stopped on the staircase halfway between the first and second floor. Finally, he said, “Are you kidding?”

“Yes, Rob, I’m kidding. She’s got something against cops. Someone told me it has to do with an encounter in Minsk. Today was actually about the nicest she’s ever spoken to me.”

“Why do you put up with that?”

“I don’t want to make her distrust the police any worse. And if you listen to what she says, she has an excellent eye for details. She also overhears patrol officers’ gossip and often tells me if they’ve disturbed anything. You just have to get past the surly exterior.” I let out a laugh.

Trilling said, “What’s so funny?”

“That’s pretty much how I describe you to people too.”